


Pineapple

by Clueda



Category: In the Flesh (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Back to School, Crossover, M/M, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clueda/pseuds/Clueda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London was the first city to re-integrate its undead.</p><p>[teenlock in the <i>In the Flesh</i> universe]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pineapple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No knowledge of _In the Flesh_ is required.** All should become clear. The only thing I will tell newcomers is that the word 'zombie' is a slur. For those in the know, however, I will just clarify a very minor point: I have fiddled with the _In the Flesh_ timeline a little, so that the first PDS sufferers to return home do so in the spring of 2013 in this fic instead of mid-2012. 
> 
> **Rated mature for language (swearing and very brief homophobic slurs), gore, mentions of off-screen drug use, and general discussion of dark/morbid topics.**
> 
> **A bit of info about the English school system if you aren’t familiar with it:** John and Sherlock in this fic attend a secondary school, which typically educates kids from the age of 11 (year 7) to 16 (year 11). In their last year, students take country-wide exams called GCSEs to gain qualifications which aid with university and/or job applications. I say typically because events in this universe have messed the school system up a little bit. You’ll see what I mean. And just fyi, the academic year begins in September and ends in July.
> 
> **This chapter is an entry into a back-to-school fic contest created by[fuckyeahteenlock](http://www.fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com)** , an awesome blog who do awesome things. The requirements were:   
>  a) teenlock   
>  b) between 1000 and 10 000 words   
>  c) somehow is themed around going back to school   
>  d) submitted before the 6th October 2015.   
>  I just about fulfilled all of those criteria. Just.
> 
> **This fic as a whole is the first of five gifts uploaded this month for the readers of my WIP teenlock boarding school AU, _[Juxtaposition](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1013999/chapters/2013450)_ , to thank them for sticking with me and the story for two years thus far.** You guys are absolutely phenomenal and I'm sure I'll get more hashtag emosh as the month of celebration goes on but for now, enjoy.
> 
> **EDIT as of 15th November 2015:[this fic is the winner](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/133165287128/fytls-back-to-school-contest-first-place-winner) of [fuckyeahteenlock](http://www.fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com)'s back-to-school fic contest!** Huge thanks to the FYTL team and of course, to the lovely [Grace](http://moriartystayingalive.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful fic cover (see below). I am honoured and will be on cloud nine for the next 70-80 years if anyone needs me.

****  


***

**FRIDAY**

Sherlock’s parents were pleased to see him again, but not entirely surprised.

His mother berated him the entire car journey back from the treatment centre for his apparent fear of commitment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted his grip on the plastic bag that held the clothes he had been buried in.

***

“ _A government spokesperson from the Department of Partially Deceased Affairs said an hour ago in an official statement that the re-assimilation of Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers around the country began successfully this morning. The next of kin of sufferers in major cities across the UK have already started to collect their loved ones from the NHS treatment centre in Norfolk and return them t–_ ”

“Hey, I was watching that!” John exclaimed, turning to his sister.

She ignored him, flicking through channels almost too fast to see what was playing on each one. “It’s the news, it’s boring. War, politics, recession.” She said. “Same as ever. Why would anyone want to watch that?”

She made deliberate eye contact with him and cocked her head.

“You know why, Harry. Don’t be a bitch.”

“Who, me? I don’t know anything, John. Nothing at all. So either you’re going to have to tell me why you want to watch that specific report about those undead freaks or I’ll just find something else to – ”

The rest of Harry’s sentence was cut off by a slam as John yanked the living room door shut behind him.

He threw himself down on his bed, covering his face with his hands. He knew why Harry was acting the way that she was, and was adamant it wasn’t going to work. He tried to cool his thoughts, slow his breath.

As his pulse began to lower, the sound of a car braking outside interrupted his thoughts. He was on his feet and at his bedroom window before he’d drawn his next breath.

But the car had only slowed to let someone cross the road. It moved away again and John felt himself deflate.

***

“You’re making me what?”

“You heard me.” Mycroft said calmly. “It’s important you get your GCSEs, no matter how clever you think you are.”

“Hasn’t the government scrapped them yet?”

Mycroft twitched an eyebrow. “No, Sherlock, unfortunately not. And being what you are now, it’s even more crucial that you – ”

Sherlock interrupted him with a groan. “I remember all the material, can’t I just take the exams?”

Mycroft ignored him. “Look,” he began. “I know you’re worried about – ”

“No, I’m not. I didn’t have any friends anyway,”

“Only because you chose to alienate anyone who – ”

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft. I’m not going back to school.”

Sherlock didn’t wait to hear his brother’s reply, storming out of the kitchen and wishing he could feel the grain of the wood beneath his fingers as he pulled his bedroom door shut.

***

Night fell and John’s mother came home. In that order.

Over dinner, John didn’t mention the news report because he already knew what her reaction would be.

***

Sherlock waited until he had heard his family go to bed before tiptoeing into the bathroom.

He caught his own gaze in the mirror above the sink and stilled for a moment. He wasn’t quite used to his reflection yet. He turned his head this way, then that. He leaned in close and examined his eyes.

After a moment, he reached for the cotton wool pads and make-up remover.

The mousse came off his skin the same way it had gone on: greasily. He dragged the pad across his cheek, revealing a thick strip of pale grey.

As he took the contact lenses out, he thought about leaving. He couldn’t spend the rest of his… _forever_ in that house. He remembered back to a plan he had come up with while high once, a plan to run away. It had been the first time he had been high with another person. Victor had told Sherlock to trust him. Had convinced him to stay in his flat. And Sherlock had talked and talked and talked.

Victor. Sherlock wondered if he’d gone to jail yet.

He still remembered the way to his apartment.

***

A knock at his door and a line of light spilling in from the corridor widening as it creaked open.

“Are you awake?”

“What do you want, Harry?”

His sister’s dark figure moved across the room and sat at the end of the bed. John didn’t look at her.

“We need to talk. I’m tired of being petty about this.”

John turned over. He heard Harry sigh.

“It’s been four years. I don’t think he could have risen from that crash, John. And I think you know it, too.”

“Go away, Harry.”

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. About – you know. When I called them freaks. I know you want him back, I was just trying to get you to... sorry.”

John said nothing.

The silence stretched like an elastic band pulled taught.

Then, so quiet John could barely hear her, “Why won’t you admit it? What he meant to you?”

John closed his eyes. He wanted to bury himself under the covers like he was hiding from a monster. He wanted to keep all of it out, keep all of that darkness at bay.

“There’s nothing to admit.”

John knew the look Harry would be giving him. He stayed still, hoping if he played dead she’d go away.

Eventually she did, saying nothing more. The line of light thinned until it was gone, and John was alone again.

***

The strip light in the ceiling of the corridor outside Victor’s flat was flickering. The air smelt of urine.

Sherlock raised his hand to the peeling paint of the door and knocked twice.

He waited, listening to the traffic on the street below. Another thing he’d noticed upon his return: the congestion charge had done fuck all.

The latch clicked and the door was pulled open by a young woman with a baby on her hip and a toddler hiding behind her legs. Sherlock smiled.

“Hello, I was wondering – ”

The woman’s eyes widened. The toddler tugged on her skirt. “Mummy, why are his eyes – ?”

The woman pushed the child behind her and slammed the door.

***

A commotion from outside his house interrupted John’s wide-awake tossing and turning that night.

He went to his window and lifted the curtain.

A streetlamp gave the scene a surreal orange glow, giving the tussling figures below deep shadows and harsh angles. One threw a drunken punch, egged on by a couple of swaying bystanders. Their slurred jeers rang clear and loud up to him – “Rotter! Undead piece of shit!”

John frowned and went back to bed. He had slept through the Rising and the nights of the Pale Wars. This was nothing.

***

Sherlock’s mind felt swollen.

The treatment centre had warned in euphemistic tones of ‘curiosity’ from the living, but Sherlock should have known better. He berated himself for feeling shaken by the woman’s reaction. It was only logical she would have been startled, looking the way he did. But that knowledge didn’t stop him feeling now every glance in his direction as the glare of a spotlight on his bare skin.

He put his hood up and walked a little faster.

He turned a corner and felt the street tilt. He looked to his left, up at the hulking church. His eye caught on the gate that led, presumably, to the graveyard, and he remembered – he remembered –

He felt his throat constrict first, then his stomach. Then he began _lurching between the trees, dragging his feet along the path, following the flow of the others as they smelt their way to the street. Electricity in his veins in the place of dried blood, a pain in his stomach that could only be ravenous hunger, a_ vague pressure on his shoulder – a hand. A voice asking if he was all right. A concerned face.

He was on all fours in the street, shaking. He muttered something reassuring and staggered to his feet, refusing the hand that the stranger was offering and keeping his eyes down. He’d already attracted enough attention, he didn’t want to create even more of a scene by letting on that he was – 

He had to get off the street.

His feet took him to the gate of the graveyard. He fumbled with the latch, cursing himself.

The graveyard was dark and empty. There was a sign next to a tree, and Sherlock took out the mobile phone his parents had given him earlier that day, increasing the brightness and using the screen as a torch.

_DANGER: OPEN GRAVES. WATCH YOUR STEP._

He illuminated his path with the phone as he wove between the graves. Some headstones were broken. Some had police tape over them, flapping gently in the breeze.

He’d had flashbacks before, back when he’d started taking the medication. They had been debilitating then. He pushed away memories of being manhandled onto a gurney, of leather straps, of muzzles.

He hadn’t felt so panicked by one for some weeks, however, and he could still feel himself shivering.

He turned towards the eastern corner of the graveyard and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He felt the tug of something primal. A pull under his skin.

He took a step in that direction, then another, and another. He picked his way over fallen branches and bits of headstone, avoiding the gaping holes in the ground that had yet to be filled in again after their occupants had vacated. As he got closer to the fence, the feeling grew stronger, as if he had pins and needles all over his body. He could feel each hair on his arms raise, feel a wave of nausea.

The light from his phone passed over a dark headstone and he froze.

_WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES_

_6 TH JANUARY 1993 – 25TH APRIL 2009_

_WITH HIM LEAVES LIGHT_

***

**SATURDAY**

John couldn’t remember which pocket he’d put his house key in.

He had tried knocking on the door of his house, but Harry must have gone out. He was rummaging in the pockets of his rugby bag when he heard his name being called.

He cursed before putting on a smile and turning around to face his next door neighbour.

***

Sherlock had woken that morning not remembering how he’d got home the night before.

His father had made him breakfast. Beans for hair, two cooked tomatoes for eyes, a sausage for a smile. Sherlock had politely turned the meal down and the expression on his father’s face when he’d remembered why had been enough to make Sherlock’s dry tear ducts itch.

Therefore, the last thing Sherlock had wanted to do was spend lunchtime at home, opting instead to paste on his mousse and put in his contacts and go looking for cases.

He had bought an armful of newspapers and was sitting on a bench in the park when he got a phone call from Mycroft. He ignored it.

Five minutes later, he had twenty four unread texts and decided that he would rather not have Mycroft ‘send someone to find him’ as he had threatened. So he left the papers on the bench – all the news stories were about PDS anyway, no crime of interest to speak of – and traipsed back home.

***

As John sat in the Sholtos’ kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and declining Jammy Dodgers, he kept his eyes on the woman sitting across from him.

“Gosh, you’re getting so big now, John,” she commented, smiling at him. “How’s school?”

He kept his eyes on the faint lines in her skin, on her greying roots.

“Good. Busy. How’s your sister’s leg?”

He didn’t look at the photographs mounted on the walls. Especially not the one with her son and himself laughing on a pair of swings as the sun set.

He was out within half an hour, a personal best.

She made him promise, as she did every time, that he would make an effort to see her more. And John felt, as he did every time, a wave of guilt that threatened to drown him.

Because he knew he wouldn’t.

***

A man Sherlock didn’t recognise was in his living room.

Blue uniform, an identification badge, a medical kit on the coffee table in front of him.

“Hello, Sherlock,” the man smiled. “I’m Tom, your local – ”

“PDS Community Care Officer, I know,” Sherlock interrupted.

Tom glanced at Sherlock’s father, who was sitting on the sofa opposite. His father gave him an apologetic look.

“Take a seat, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat next to his father. Mrs Hudson sat on the other side. Mycroft and his mother were nowhere to be seen.

“I was just explaining to your family that today I’ll be giving them a Partially Deceased Syndrome one-oh-one – or, rather, you and I will, Sherlock, because you might know a little more than I do,” Tom joked.

Sherlock didn’t laugh.

Tom cleared his throat and continued. “So, Mr Holmes, Mrs Hudson. I’m sure you’ve read the leaflets we posted to you prior to your son’s return, and I’m sure you know about the various acts and bills the government has put in place to protect your son and people like him. However, what you may not know is that there also, unfortunately, must to be acts and bills to protect the living as well. To that end, as I’m certain Sherlock understands, it is _very_ _important_ – ” Tom looked at Sherlock. “ – that he takes his medicine at the same time every twenty-four hours. To keep him from, uh, regressing into his untreated state.”

“Regressing?” Sherlock’s father asked.

“Going rabid again and mauling you all to death,” Sherlock clarified.

He heard Mrs Hudson sigh and Tom cough uncomfortably.

“Well. To stop any regression, Sherlock will need to take a type of medicine called neurotiptryline – ”

“Neurotriptyline,” Sherlock corrected.

“Yes, neurotiptryline, I can never pronounce it correctly,” Tom laughed, looking at the adults. “Sherlock’s been taking this drug since he was, uh, taken into care. Here’s a six-month supply.” He slid a box across the table. “You will need to contact me when you’re on your last bottle – we don’t want you running out, now, do we?” he laughed, a little too high-pitched.

He then proceeded to explain and assemble with clumsy fingers the syringe, clipping on the bottle and clicking it into place.

“Big, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson commented.

Sherlock wanted to make a comment about his being accustomed to syringes, but knew he’d regret it. So he sat still as Tom walked behind the sofa, beckoning his parents. Tom pulled the collar of his shirt down to reveal –

“God almighty, that’s – that’s deep,” Sherlock heard his father mutter.

“Now,” Tom braced the fingers of his free hand against the back of Sherlock’s neck. “You just slot the syringe in here, like this.” Sherlock felt the cold of the metal and then, without any warning, Tom pressed the trigger.

He heard a brief commotion from his family as he began to shake and then nothing more as he _bit down on the neck of the girl, feeling the stickiness and warmth and each tendon as it snapped beneath his teeth and_ the hands on his arms as the memory began to fade.

“Poor thing,” Mrs Hudson said, rubbing his back as he leant forward, shaking the last of the memory from his head. “And he has to do that every day?”

“Yes. If he is found to be not taking his medication, and you will notice pretty quickly if he isn’t, or if you think he’s becoming intolerant, he’ll have to be – well.” Tom lowered his voice. “Just give me a ring, yeah?”

Once everyone was sitting again, Tom began to explain the side effects of the drug.

“They’re very rare, nothing to worry about, but I have to give you the list, it’s a legal thing. So.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read, so quickly that the words blurred into one another. “Lethargy, fever, nausea, insomnia, vivid dreams, depression, panic attacks, and involuntary recurrent memories. As I said, nothing to worry about.”

“What’s the point of taking it, then? If it does all that?”

“It keeps him hu- ” Tom glanced at Sherlock. “It keeps him in the state he is in now.  Rebuilds his brain cells.”

“Neurogenesis.” Sherlock added. “It artificially stimulates the growth of glial cells, which are vital for proper brain function and neurotransmitter growth.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Well, there you go. I didn’t even know that. Now, I have to get a little serious. Sherlock, as you well know, there are some new laws that you must follow.” Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes. He blocked out Tom’s voice, mind wandering until a particular word yanked it back.

“…education until the age of eighteen, until which time the government will aid you with finding appropriate employment.”

_Must remain in education until the age of eighteen._

“What does that mean? Appropriate?” Mrs Hudson asked, a mixture of worry and offense in her tone, at the same time as Sherlock tried to point out that he would never turn eighteen. Tom replied with platitudes and reassurances to them both, but Sherlock felt a weight within his chest, a sharp weight that lodged itself between his ribs. A weight like panic.

Tom requested to have ‘words in private’ with Sherlock’s father. Mrs Hudson persuaded Sherlock to help her with making dinner, but even so, Sherlock saw his father walk quietly past the kitchen door and upstairs, and he saw the taser in his hand.

***

“Where’ve you been?” Harry called accusingly from the sofa as John walked past the living room door and up the stairs. “Rugby finished, like, an hour ago,”

“Sholtos’,” John replied shortly.

“Oh, shit,” Harry cursed. “You okay?”

“Fine,” John said as he shut his bedroom door. He slung his bag onto his bed and kicked off his trainers. He felt a dull ache somewhere within him that he didn’t bother to fight.

***

Sherlock lifted the bow from the strings of his violin because he thought he'd heard – yes, there it was again. His name being called from downstairs.

He took out his earphones. “What?” he yelled back.

“Come down for dinner!” Mrs Hudson’s voice replied.

“There’s no point!”

“Just come and sit with us, dear!”

Sherlock sighed and put down his violin.

Mrs Hudson was waiting for him at the foot of the staircase. “We know you can’t quite… you know. But we like to have you sit and chat, dear.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to be annoyed, and so followed her into the dining room.

Dinner that night was lamb. Sherlock sat next to his father. Someone had laid a place for him. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands.

The conversation was on the pleasant side of quotidian, until Mycroft found a lull in which to turn to him and say, “I hear you’re starting school again on Monday, little brother.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Not my decision.”

“We, gave away your old uniform, Sherlock,” his father said. “We’ll have to buy you some more tomorrow,”

“Deep joy,” Sherlock commented. “I’ll need some stationery too.”

“All right,” his father agreed, and the conversation flowed onto other topics.

Sherlock watched his family talk, observing the lines in his mother’s skin and his brother’s receding hairline. He fiddled with his cutlery and tried his best not to think about their funerals.

***

**SUNDAY**

John woke sitting upright and gripping the hockey stick he kept under his bed with white-knuckled hands.

He blinked into the morning light. The house was silent.

After the nightmare had begun to fade, John slowly lowered the improvised weapon, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and feeling idiotic. He breathed for a few moments, letting his pulse drop.

He pushed the hockey stick back under his bed, being careful not to touch the nails, crusted black, that protruded from the wood in places. Logic told him PDS wasn’t contagious. Fear made him want to wipe his hands on his duvet anyway.

He texted Mike.

**_Don’t have that much homework – want to meet up later?_ **

It wasn’t early enough that John could allow himself to lounge in bed much longer, so he heaved himself out of bed and made his way downstairs.

***

Sherlock’s father never spoke to him about the serious stuff.

Of his parents, he was the one Sherlock preferred. His mother was a genius, but sometimes forgot that her children weren’t equations to be solved. His father, on the other hand, bumbled from room to room, making tea and smiling in ways that bandaged cuts Sherlock didn’t even know he’d had.

Which was why he was a little taken aback when his father turned to him in WH Smith’s and said, “Parents aren’t supposed to write their children’s eulogies.”

Sherlock felt very small, then.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Someone pushed past them, and Sherlock remembered that they were standing in the kids’ colouring book section of a stationery shop. He blinked and shifted, drawing his gaze up to that of his father.

“It’ll never happen again.” He joked hesitantly. When the man only frowned in confusion, he elaborated. “You know. Because that’s usually how immortality… never mind.”

His father looked at him for a moment before rolling his eyes, and Sherlock exhaled his relief.

***

John and Mike were sitting on a see-saw, John relishing the feeling of the balmy spring air on his skin.

“Did you read that letter yesterday from school?” Mike asked.

“No,” John said, thinking. “I saw one come through the door but I didn’t open it. What’d it say?”

“That we’re going to have PDS kids coming back to school next week.”

John cocked his head. “Really?”

“Mhm. Didn’t really occur to me that they’d even need to go to school. I don’t see what a couple of GCSEs are going to do for you if you’re going to be sixteen forever,”

John breathed a laugh. “I suppose that’s true.”

“’S going to be weird. Considering there must be loads of kids like you in school. Can’t really believe it’s going to be smooth sailing, somehow.”

John hummed noncommittally. He was watching the children in the park around them. They were screaming with joy, laughing their bubbly little laughs. Their parents looked on from nearby benches.

John’s gaze caught on one man, a father, sitting by himself. He was watching his daughter do handstands on the grass. He was smiling. But then he turned his head and John realised his face was a little too tanned for his blond hair.

John thought of his father's grave.

***

Sherlock had returned home with heavy carrier bags digging into the skin of his palms. He took them upstairs to his room and emptied them onto his bed, stationery and clothing in a large pile.

Aside from the practical, Sherlock had also bought himself a new journal. He had almost forgotten about his journals, being so wrapped up in re-assimilating as he had been. This new one had thick pages and a maroon cover, and Sherlock held it in his hands, feeling its weight.

He went to the cupboard in which he’d kept his other journals. He lifted the panel of wood that hid it and smiled when he saw the notebooks as he’d left them. He reached in, pulling one out.

He blew a layer of dust off the cover. _2008_ was written on the front. He flipped it open.

The pages were filled with his scrawling hand writing, detailing experiments and cases and ideas and reminders.

_1 st January._

_Ice beginning to thaw on pond in park. Samples of water taken for analysis of nutrients._

 

Darkness fell as he read, but only when he began to struggle to read the words on the page did he realise and turn some lights on. When he had finished that journal, he immediately reached for another.

 _2009_.

The first few weeks were more of the same – deductions and information and statistics. But then Sherlock noticed that he had begun to make mistakes, forgetting things, crossing out words and sometimes entire paragraphs, scribbling so hard he’d torn the page in places.

_2 nd March._

_JM’s new mix - mixbenzoylmethyl ecgonine, ketamine and a benzodiazepine. Can’t tell which._

 

Sherlock felt as if his heart had stopped. He didn’t remember much about his death, having chosen to delete it. His last few days had been hazy anyway, shrouded in mist. But those initials, the first mention of them, made the fog clear.

He didn’t want to read on. He didn’t want to remember. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the page.

_5 th March._

_17/50 on Bio test. VT meeting with JM again._

_12 th March._

_Misplaced school tie. Might have left it at IA’s._

_14 th March._

_VT says JM wants to meet me._

_15 th March._

_Grounded – parents were called into school because of 12% on maths test. So, can’t meet JM._

_Don’t remember taking the maths test._

_20 th March._

_VT met with JM again. Will see VT tomorrow._

_23 rd March._

_Was discharged from hospital this morning. VT still there. Don’t remember how we got to A &E, don’t remember why._

_25 th March._

_JM in Ireland for a week. Will record withdrawal for future reference._

_2 nd April._

_Seeing VT tonight – says he has met with JM, who is back in London._

_9 th April._

_VT passed out last night, nearly stopped breathing. Be cautious of JM’s new stuff in future._

_13 th April._

_VT insisted on tried and tested. All well._

_14 th April._

_Sick this morning._

_16 th April._

_Forgot way to VT’s house. Streets looked the same. Feeling sick again._

_17 th April._

_Failed chemistry test._

_18 th April. _

_CP died during swimming gala at school. Was watching. Police insist on accidental drowning. Something not right. IA agrees. Went into changing room – all of CP’s stuff was there except his shoes._

_19 th April._

_Think JM has changed something. Head feels odd._

_Been looking into CP case, can’t concentrate. Will go and see VT tonight._

_21 st April. _

_Got a text from an unknown number. Signed ‘Jim’. Must be JM. Don’t like his tone._

_Can’t remember anything of yesterday._

_22 nd April._

_CP’s funeral. IA and I tried to attend, but couldn’t think up a relation to deceased when asked. Got kicked out._

_23 rd April._

_Couldn’t remember Mycroft’s name today. He’s beginning to suspect something. Not feeling right. Will speak to VT about it._

_IA gone. Told me her parents were in danger. Told me I would never see her again._

_24 th April._

_VT not home, not answering messages. Will text JM._

_25 th April._

_JM says VT is visiting grandparents and broke his phone. Don’t believe him. Have arranged to meet with JM._

 

The journal ended there.

Sherlock felt sick.

He ran to the bathroom and ducked his head over the toilet. He retched, feeling thick liquid dribble over his bottom lip. He wiped his hand over his mouth. It came away smeared black.

***

Over dinner, John’s mother brought up the letter.

“Can’t believe the government has the nerve to put those things around kids,” she muttered, stabbing a sausage. “And around kids who’ve seen their own families be torn apart by them. Disgusting.”

“They’re just kids themselves, mum,” John said quietly, willing himself to stay calm, feeling Harry’s eyes on his face. “They couldn’t help what they did before.”

“Bullshit.” His mother stated. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”

“So you’re saying that Raj from down the shop _wanted_ to snap his own daughter’s neck? Or that that babysitter planned the _exact_ way she’d bite into that toddler’s face?”

“They’re evil, John. Maybe they weren’t when they were alive but whatever they are now is unnatural, it’s perverse – ”

“How can it be unnatural if they’ve found a way to treat it medicinally? You don't seriously believe all that pro-living crap, do you?”

“John,” Harry said quietly, warning in her tone. “Maybe it’d be best if – ”

“No, Harry, it’d be best if our mother wasn’t trying to make us hate our own classmates,”

His mother was shaking her head. “How dare you speak to me like that – if your father were here he’d – ”

“But he’s not!”

The table fell silent.

John felt his cheeks burn and his heart race but he was sick of his mother’s ignorance and all he could think about was James and his own father and he wanted to be sick.

“He’s not here. And hating the people who killed him will do nothing to change that. Have some fucking humanity, mum.”

His mother was on her feet but John didn’t hear her shouts. He ran to his room, slamming the door and sinking to the floor, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

***

**MONDAY**

Sherlock stood in front of the bathroom mirror in his school uniform.

He hadn’t missed the polyester tie, nor the ill-fitting jumper, but the familiarity of them was a comfort as he looked on his own face, which now felt so alien.

His hand was resting on the tub of cover-up mousse.

He was thinking about the encounter with the woman in Victor’s flat. He was thinking about whispers he had heard in the treatment centre, on web forums, whispers about a Prophet and liberation and _pride_. He was thinking about thick legal documents uploaded illegally to unlisted websites, ones that used long words and sub-sub-sub-clauses to bury the hatred behind the conditions under which his existence had now been forced. He was thinking about duty.

He lowered his hand. 

Sherlock’s house was a fifteen minute walk from school. By the time he’d reached the gates, he had heard three slurs muttered at him, and had been barged into twice.

He paused by the entrance to the school. He resented the way nerves manifested themselves now. Instead of an elevated pulse and shallow breathing – manageable, precise – all he felt was a vague nausea, as if his skin was too tight.

He swallowed once and raised his face, forcing himself to keep his eyes off the ground. He watched the faces of kids he didn’t know stream past him for a moment before stepping into the playground.

***

John was nearly late. He jogged into school just as the bell rang.

He made his way to his form room, knocked twice and opened the door, earning himself a sigh of disapproval from his tutor and a collective tut from his friends. He grinned at them as he wove between the desks to his usual seat beside Mike, who tutted at him.

He settled in his chair and shoved his backpack under the table. As he looked up again, he noticed a figure he didn’t recognise sitting in the seat in front of him.

He nudged Mike, who followed his questioning gaze.

“Ah. Remember Little Pete?” Mike whispered.

“The one who got run over when we were in, what, year eight?”

Mike nodded. “He had been in year ten.”

John looked back at Pete, and as the boy turned his head, John saw a long scar tracing up his made-up cheek, the edges of the wound held together with thick staples. He shivered.

***

Nobody had said anything to Sherlock during registration. His form tutor, an elderly man who Sherlock didn’t know, had done a double take upon seeing him, but had quickly looked away.

He hadn’t looked at Sherlock again, shifting and swallowing when Sherlock had answered his name with a loud “Present, sir.”

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help feeling smug in the old man’s discomfort.

***

The school filed into the assembly hall, a steady glacier flowing through the small doorway. John trod on the ankle of the boy in front of him by accident, and apologised with a smile when the boy had turned around.

The boy’s eyes widened. “That’s okay,” he said quietly.

When he’d turned back around again, John frowned, noticing now the smudges of orange on his white collar. The boy had looked at him as if no-one had spoken to him yet that day, as if he’d believed himself to be a ghost, invisible.

John supposed he had been about right.

***

“Good morning, everyone,” the Head Master greeted the students, resting his hands on the lectern in front of him. “I hope you all had a good weekend. We have lots to get through in assembly this morning, but first I’d like to welcome our Partially Deceased students back to Saint Bartholomew’s. You will likely never know how the school mourned each and every one of you, but needless to say, we are overjoyed to have you back with us.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’d also like to welcome the PDS students who are coming for the first time to Saint Bart’s. It is a great shame that your previous schools can’t take you back, but we hope you will find a home here.”

Sherlock cocked his head in thought.

He knew that _can’t_ meant _won’t_ , and frowned. He hadn’t thought about how some of the more religious schools in the area might have reacted. He looked out over the assembly hall. It would account for just how many PDS faces he could see, more than he would have thought would have been proportional for the school. He had only known of one other child dying in 2009. A road traffic accident in the year below him, a boy nicknamed Little Pete for his gawkish height. Sherlock scanned the audience for the boy, finding him sat across the aisle. Sherlock tried to catch his eye, but Pete kept his eyes on the floor.

As Sherlock was making his way out of the hall, he heard his name being called. He turned around to see the Head Master and the head of Year Eleven standing expectantly, arms folded across their chests.

Sherlock knew what they were going to say to him, so he put on his most innocent expression and walked over to them.

“Hello, Mr Rahman, Miss Bailey,” he said. “It’s wonderful to see you again,”

“I would love to say the same, Sherlock, but I’m sure you know what we’re about to say to you.”

Sherlock shrugged, drawing his eyebrows together slightly. “No, sir. Have I done something wrong?”

Miss Bailey shot the Head a glance. “Your cover-up, Sherlock. Your contact lenses. Where are they?”

“The contacts irritate my eyes, miss,” he lied.

“And what about the cover-up, then?” When Sherlock gave her a blank look, she pursed her lips. “You know full well it’s illegal for people like you to go around – well, to go around as you are.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” Mr Rahman retorted.

“No, sir. I don’t.” Sherlock insisted, revelling at the way the two teachers shifted.

Miss Bailey lowered her voice, reluctance saturated in her stilted speech. “So as to – to make the other students more… more – ”

“Comfortable? Ignorant? So I don’t scare them? Is that the reason?” Sherlock kept an intense glare focused on her, knowing his eyes were making her nervous.

“You’ll have to go home and – and cover up, Sherlock.”

“But miss, I don’t have a key and all my family are out,” he lied. “Don’t worry, though, miss. I’m sure the other kids will be okay, just for a day. I mean, they’ve had to look at your bare face all these years, so they won’t even notice me.”

Sherlock smirked as her jaw dropped, as the Head’s face purpled with rage, as their voices raised.

He was escorted to isolation, a disused, bare-walled, windowless classroom supervised by a disgruntled secretary. He was told to stay there until the end of detention.

The secretary was told he was “in no state to be around the other students”. That his conduct was “inappropriate” and “deliberately provocative”.

The secretary avoided his eyes and made sure not to touch him when handing him work.

Over the course of the morning, a couple of other kids were sent out of their lessons and joined Sherlock in isolation. They were all PDS.

***

At lunch, Mike and John sat with the rest of their friends at their regular table. As they ate, John’s eyes wandered about the dining hall. On the table in the furthest corner sat a huddle of bronze-skinned figures, deep in conversation.

“Why aren’t they eating anything? The PDS kids?” John asked Mike quietly.

His friend shrugged. “They ate brains when they were rabid, right? Maybe that’s all they can eat.”

Bill followed the two boys’ gaze. “If you fucked one of ‘em, would it be necrophilia?”

The table burst out into laughter and John lost interest in his food.

***

The secretary had tried to make the isolated PDS students go to lunch, but had quickly backed down after Sherlock had asked him about his wife’s affair.

“You’re so brave,” one of the other PDS kids whispered shyly, a girl in year nine from a school three streets away, with angry, blackened skin blistered across her right cheek.

“It’s not bravery, Molly,” Sherlock replied. “It’s logic. We aren’t animals, therefore they can’t treat us as such.”

A little later on, they sat around one table, pretending to be helping each other with their work.

“House fire. Asphyxiation. It’s the smoke that gets you,” Molly whispered.

“Tried to get my dad out of a brawl. Bad idea. Got stabbed by accident,” Greg whispered, a boy in Sherlock’s year who had come from the same school as Molly.

“Murdered.” Sherlock whispered. His new-found friends’ eyes flicked up to his in alarm. “Or suicide. Coroners said suicide.”

“What?” Molly hissed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, but the door to the office opened.

“Hooper, your isolation’s up.” The teacher at the door said. “Lunch is just about to end. Go and get your books for your next lesson.”

Molly gave Greg and Sherlock a small wave as she gathered her things and followed the man out.

***

As the bell went to signal the end of the lunch break, John’s team had just lost a playground game of football to a team headed by Bill.

“Ha!” Bill yelled at him. “Suck on that, Johnny!”

“Whatever, Bill. Congrats,” John dismissed, going to gather the jumpers that had served as goal posts.

“ _Whatever, Bill_ ,” Bill mocked, voice high and nasal in his impression, circling him. “Poor ickle Johnny – go home and cry to your daddy,”

John frowned. “Dude, come on,”

Bill threw up his hands. “Alright, alright. Why don’t you get your dyke of a sister to take you to a gay bar, cheer you up?”

“What the hell, Bill?” John said. “It’s just a game of footie, why are you so het up?”

Bill laughed and slapped him on the back. “I’m just messing with you, John,” he said.

John and Mike exchanged a look behind Bill’s back as Bill put his arms around their shoulders, leading them inside.

***

“So was it murder or suicide?” Greg whispered to Sherlock over the top of his maths textbook.

“Murder.” Sherlock replied. “The police might as well be dumb, deaf and blind. It was obvious, but they wrote it off as suicide and didn’t think twice.”

Greg frowned. “I want to be a policeman when I’m older,”

“Hm. You don’t seem as stupid as the rest of them.” Sherlock said. “You might actually do quite well.”

“Hey!” The secretary barked, pointing at Greg. “Move over there and both of you, shut up!”

Greg being banished to the opposite side of the room, Sherlock quickly grew bored. He tried tapping out messages in Morse code on the desk with his pen but Greg didn’t respond.

Sherlock put his head on his desk and sighed.

***

John could feel Bill’s presence on the other side of the aisle in his English Literature classroom. He could feel his restless energy. The boy was buzzing.

John had never liked him. And he knew he’d never liked John. And he knew that he knew that he’d annoyed John earlier. And he knew that he was looking for another opportunity.

“I’m just going to go and photocopy this.” John’s teacher announced, picking up a wad of paper and getting up from his desk. John willed him silently to stay, but the door clicked shut behind him and Bill’s face lit up.

“Hey, John!”

John ignored him and continued reading Robert Frost.

_It comes to little more:_

_There where it is we do not need the wall:_

_He is all pine and I am apple orchard._

_My apple trees will never get across_

_And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him._

“Hey! John!”

“Fuck off, Bill,” John sighed.

_There where it is we do not need the wall:_

_He is all pine and I am apple orchard._

“John, do you remember James? James Sholto?”

_He is all pine and I am apple orchard._

“James Sholto, John. Didn’t you have a crush on him back in year eight?”

“Fuck _off_ , Bill.”

_He is all pine and I –_

“If he came back all zombie, would you still fancy him?”

John was on his feet. “Shut the fuck up, Bill.”

The classroom stilled.

“Oohoohoo, Johnny, have I hit a nerve?” Bill laughed.

John could feel his chest heaving.

“So are you gay or what? What do you parents think having two queers for offspring, huh?”

“Bill, I swear to god – ”

“Oh, sorry. Parent, singular, right?”

John took a step towards him. Bill looked up at him, lounging, still, in his seat.

“What was worse, John? Daddy’s death or Sholto’s?”

***

The door to the office opened to reveal the same man who had come for Molly, but this time, he was holding a living boy by the scruff of his jumper. The boy’s jaw was set and his tie was askew.

“John Watson, Mrs Bailey’s form, year ten. To stay until the end of the day and then an hour’s detention. Fighting in class. He’s to write a letter of apology.” the man informed the secretary, who nodded, and indicated for the boy to take a seat on Sherlock’s table.

Sherlock watched him sit heavily in the plastic chair, shoving his bag under the desk. He looked a little too old to be in year ten, Sherlock thought, shoulders a little too broad, face a little too defined. He adjusted his tie, his shirt, pushed up his sleeves to the crooks of his elbows.

The secretary came over and handed him a sheet of paper. The boy – _John_ , Sherlock corrected himself – sighed and thanked him.

 _Intriguing_ , Sherlock thought. _A polite bully_.

John must have felt Sherlock’s gaze, because he looked up, and his eyes were a deep grey-blue. He smiled at Sherlock, then went back to his work.

Sherlock’s eyes caught on John’s hand. There was some bruising around the knuckles, but it was otherwise clean. The person on the other end had been living, then. Sherlock had expected to see cover-up smeared across his hands.

“Excuse me,” John said to the secretary, and his voice was calm, betraying no coarseness, unlike those of the bullies Sherlock had known. “Please may I ring my mum? If I’m staying for detention, she’ll need to know where I am,”

The secretary narrowed his eyes, but nodded, and John got up.

Sherlock watched the secretary follow him out into the corridor to make sure he didn’t run away. Sherlock shot a glance at Greg, but the boy was buried in a book and not paying the proceedings any attention.

Sherlock looked over at John’s apology letter.

****

**_John Watson_ **

**_Monday 24 th April 2013_ **

****

**_Dear Bill,_ **

 

And nothing more as of yet. His handwriting was neat but unrefined. No cursive. His planner was open on the table, and Sherlock flicked the page over to the previous week’s spread. Every listed piece of homework had a detailed description of what was to be done, when by, and a tick.

Sherlock frowned.

He could hear John’s conversation if he listened. He was leaving an answerphone message.

“Hi mum, it’s me, it’s John. Uh, it’s about two forty-five on Monday. I’ve got a detention tonight for – well, I’ll explain when I see you. Anyway, I’ll be home about six. See you later.”

_Mother works, doesn’t check phone very often. Little affection in John’s tone. Avoids topic of his punishment: he’s not proud of what he’s done._

As John and the secretary came back into the room, Sherlock returned his gaze to his work. He continued writing the essay he had been given to copy, and heard John continue writing as well.

John was handsome. His voice was calm, intelligent. And he had smiled at him.

Sherlock pushed those thoughts away, down, out of sight.

Not two minutes later, however, he felt something hit his head and bounce off.

A scrunched-up ball of paper landed on the desk in front of him. He looked up, surprised to see John looking at him. Sherlock tilted his head in question.

 _Open it_ , John mouthed, and Sherlock felt like an idiot. He put down his pen and smoothed out the paper as quietly as he could.

John’s handwriting.

**_If you don’t mind me asking, are you here because you’re barefaced?_ **

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

 _Yes_ , he replied underneath. _Not to sound all militant, but the cover-up and contacts are tools of oppression. Plus, the cover-up really clogs my pores._

He re-folded the paper and slid it across the table to John. He heard John open the message, read it, and snort, and Sherlock bit his lip to keep a smile at bay.

The paper returned within seconds.

**_Hahaha, fair enough. I’m John, by the way, but I guess you must have heard that from Mr McGrumpy who brought me in. What’s your name?_ **

_Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you. If you don’t mind me asking, what was the fight about? You don’t seem the type to bully._

**_Likewise :) I don’t seem the type? That’s good to hear. I’m not, but this guy in my Eng Lit class was being a dick and I just saw red. Not proud of myself, I have to say. How do you know I’m not the type?_ **

_I deduced it. Neat handwriting, perfect spelling, polite. Not the type._

**_Well, thanks, I suppose?? What else can you deduce?_ **

_The Wars took you out of school, I think. Not sure about that one. How personal do you want me to go, because I could tell you all about your relationship with your mother if you like…?_

**_Ooh, no thanks, I’ll pass. Yeah, the Wars were pretty brutal. Most schools closed for nearly two years. I’m sixteen, so technically I should be in year eleven, but most living people got held back a year or two. You’re in year eleven, though, right? I think I remember you from before. I was in year eight when you… you know._ **

_So you don’t remember me from all of my inspiring academic and extra-curricular achievements?_

**_Haha, sorry, dude! You know, I was a bit scared of you back then. As a tiny twelve-year-old you were kind of terrifying._ **

_I don’t suppose I’m helping myself be less terrifying now, barefaced as I am. I should have thought of the children._

**_I don’t think it’s scary. Your face, that is. A little unexpected at first glance, sure, but not scary. It’s just a face. And a nice face, at that._ **

Sherlock read over the last sentence precisely fourteen times. He hoped John wasn’t looking at him, because he was sure his surprise was written all over his face, even if he didn’t have to worry about blushing.

They continued passing notes back and forth, rapidly filling page after page, and Sherlock didn’t realise how engrossed he’d become in the way John drew his commas until he felt another something hit him in the back of the head.

He turned around and saw a ball of paper on the floor. He reached down and smoothed it out.

**Hashtag chirpse, mate. Love, the Gregster**

Sherlock felt his face scrunch in confusion.

_I didn’t understand any of that._

**It’s new slang I picked up about five hours ago. All the living kids are using it. It means you’re flirting, amigo, and it’s obvious as all hell.**

Sherlock glanced at John.

_I am rolling my eyes at you._

**Hey, I’m supporting you here! Just as long as you make me best man @ your wedding, I say go for it.**

_Go home, Greg. Leave John and I to our romantic detention._

****AAYYYYY YOU DO FANCY HIM!!!** HAVE FUN YA COUGAR ;)**

The bell rang for the end of school and Sherlock hadn’t done any work in two hours. John’s letter had grown by about three lines.

A handful of other kids drifted in for detention, so John moved up a seat, and now Sherlock could smell him.

Washing detergent and deodorant. John smelt plain. And Sherlock wanted to bury his face in his skin so he could smell nothing else.

***

John hadn’t known Sherlock was impossibly clever, but he was quickly learning by experience as the boy repeatedly annihilated him in round after round of hangman.

His only memories of Sherlock from before the Rising had been glimpses of a tall figure stalking through the corridors with a girl who had the aura of an empress. Both of them had looked as if they were sculpted out of marble.

**_Who was that girl you used to hang out with back in the day?_ **

John watched Sherlock reply, watched the way his delicate fingers held the pen, tried not to think about how they’d feel laced with his.

_Irene. At least, that’s the name she told me. Before I died, she had to leave school. Her parents were very shadowy people, she was only here as part of a witness protection programme. I have no idea what happened to her next._

**_You two were the biggest power couple._ **

_I don’t know exactly what a power couple is, but we weren’t romantically involved. Girls aren’t really my area._

John felt something flutter in his stomach.

**_So did you have a boyfriend, then?_ **

_No. I doubt anyone would want me for a significant other._

John risked a glance at Sherlock. He had his eyes on his paper, was still copying out his essay.

He paused a moment before writing his reply.

**_I think anyone with eyes in their head would want you for a significant other._ **

He was about to push the sheet of paper back to Sherlock when he noticed a droplet of black liquid trailing slowly from Sherlock’s nose.

He stopped breathing.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock looked at him. “What?”

The droplet hung for a moment from his chin before falling to the desk, a burst of black against the bleached white of the paper.

Sherlock looked down, eyebrows drawn together. He touched a finger to his nostril. It came away smudged with dark liquid.

Sherlock met John’s gaze, eyes wide.

The two boys were on their feet at the same time, bags in hand.

“Sir, I have to go home,” Sherlock said to the teacher supervising the detention. The eyes of the other students turned on them, a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

“There’s still fifteen minutes left, Holmes. Sit down, both of you.”

“Sir, I have to take my medication,” Sherlock insisted.

Realisation dawned on the teacher. He gaped. “Uh – ”

 _Fuck this_ , John thought, making a decision.

He grabbed Sherlock by the arm and ran out of the classroom.

They sprinted through the corridors, John’s heart a panicked thing in his ribcage. Once they had left the school gates, John stopped. Sherlock turned to him, hand still covering his nose. “What time do you take your medication?”

“Four fifty,” Sherlock said. “I need to get home.”

“No _shit_ ,” John exclaimed. “Let’s go. Where do you live?”

They jogged through back-alleys and residential areas, avoiding populated streets. The black bile was beginning to dribble through Sherlock’s fingers.

“You’re going to get in trouble for leaving detention early,” Sherlock said.

“So will you,”

“Medical emergency for me. Plain misbehaviour for you,”

“I don’t care,” John said, and surprised himself with the truth of it. “I’m going to be a doctor. This is training.”

Sherlock laughed, then coughed, then slowed down, then came to a halt completely.

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder as he bent over, spluttering coughs and retching. He stilled for a moment before spitting out a dark string of bile.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, straightening up and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper.

“Okay. We’re nearly there, right? Let’s keep going.”

Sherlock’s house was a beautiful Tudor construction set back from a quiet birch-lined street. John wanted to admire the ornate knocker but forced himself to knock first.

An elderly woman opened the door.

“Hello, Sherlock, dear – oh, are you alright, love? You look a bit peaky. What’s all that muck on your face? And who’s this handsome young chap? It’s lovely to meet you, I’m Mrs Hudson, Sherlock’s – ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past her, leaving John to apologise and explain.

“Oh, goodness,” Mrs Hudson gasped once she understood. “In that case, come in, come in,”

John followed the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps, finding the staircase and taking it two steps at a time. By the time he got to Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock had his blazer and tie off and was trying to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers.

“Can’t get to the hole if I’m wearing a colla-” he began to explain, but was cut off by a coughing fit, drops of the bile flecking his hand as he covered his mouth.

John batted his hands away and began undoing the buttons as quickly as his fingers would allow. Sherlock was beginning to shake when John had finished and discarded the shirt on the floor.

“Where’s the medicine, Sherlock?” John asked, willing his voice to stay steady.

Sherlock pointed to a door, eyes unfocussed, before he doubled over with a pained grunt. John ran into the bathroom, opening every cabinet in sight before finding the syringe. Luckily, there was a bottle already clipped into place, so John gingerly lifted the thing down and returned to Sherlock.

“Hurry, John,” Sherlock pleaded.

“Sit on the bed,” John instructed, and Sherlock did so. John knelt behind him.

He pushed down a swelling tide of nerves, took a deep breath and braced one hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. The boy’s skin was icy and he was shaking like a leaf, but John positioned the syringe, took a breath, and pushed the trigger.

There was no warning before Sherlock began to convulse. John threw the syringe onto the pillows and lay Sherlock down on his back, then sat beside him.

Footsteps, then Mrs Hudson and a man John didn’t know were at the bedside, reaching to hold Sherlock down. John shook his head.

“I know you want to, but it’s best to let him be. He’ll be fine.” he said softly.

He understood their desire, wanting more than anything to hold Sherlock to him, stop his head bouncing like that, but he knew that restraining him would only hurt him.

So he watched his friend and hoped.

After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been seconds, Sherlock stopped fitting. John put a hand on his arm, rubbing his thumb gently over his cool skin.

Sherlock stilled, eyelids fluttering before opening. His white eyes found John’s blue, and John smiled.

“How are you feeling?”

“’M okay,” Sherlock mumbled before looking over to Mrs Hudson and the man. “Sorry,” he said quietly.

Mrs Hudson made a disapproving sound with her tongue. “Don’t be silly. As long as you’re alright, love,” she said, bending down to stroke his cheek.

“You should have been home nearly an hour ago, Sherlock,” the man said, and Sherlock groaned.

Mrs Hudson smacked the man’s arm. “ _Mycroft_ ,” she chastised.

“If he had been home on time this never would have happened,” the man – Mycroft – replied, a little softer this time.

“I got a detention,” Sherlock muttered.

“On your first day?” Mycroft replied incredulously. “What in the world for?”

Sherlock sat up and gave Mycroft a look that John’s mother would have smacked John for if he’d done the same. Sherlock gestured to his entire face. “Apparently _this_ isn’t appropriate,”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You knew that, little brother. Don’t act as if you’re the victim here.”

John’s surprise at the familial address was dulled by the storm brewing in Sherlock’s features. He slid off the bed, feeling an argument darkening the horizon.

“I should go,” he excused himself, gathering up his bag.

Sherlock’s face fell. “You – you don’t have to,” he said, and John willed himself not to blush.

“We don’t even know your name, dear. Stay for dinner, at least,” Mrs Hudson reasoned, putting a hand on his arm.

John smiled. “John. John Watson. And I wish I could, but my mum doesn’t know where I am, so…”

Mrs Hudson sighed. “If you insist. We’ll leave you two to say goodbye, then, won’t we, Mycroft,”

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to protest, but John saw the look Mrs Hudson gave him and shooed him out of the room.

Once they had gone, John turned back to Sherlock.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, getting up and walking past him into the bathroom.

“Really, though?” John followed him and leant against the door frame. "If you don’t mind me asking,"

Sherlock made eye contact with him in the mirror. “Yes, John. Really.” His voice was soft, and there was a hint of a smile at his lips.

They stood in silence a moment, Sherlock using a wet flannel to scrub the drying black stains from his lower face and neck.

“So, no more detentions, yeah?” John said. “Can’t have you missing your dose again,”

Sherlock laughed. “No more detentions,” he promised. “And none for you, either.”

“Scout’s honour.”

A pause.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why were you fighting with that boy in your English class?”

“Oh,” John said, frowning. “He was just… he brought up my dad and my sister and this boy, my next door neighbour, I used to be close with him. I don’t know.”

“What about them?”

John raised an eyebrow. “If you really want to know, my dad died during the Wars, my sister’s gay, and I kind of used to have a, uh, crush on the boy. So.” He cleared his throat. “Um. He was just being an arse, basically.”

Sherlock hummed, and John wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Sherlock walked back into his bedroom and pulled on a hoodie, and all of a sudden, Sherlock's hands hidden by the long sleeves and curls flattened by the hood, John had to look away, smiling at the floor.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at school, Sherlock.”

He turned to leave, but Sherlock caught his arm. John turned around.

Sherlock took a breath. “Thank you, John.” He said quietly. “You saved my life. My, uh, second life, that is.”

John fought a grin. He felt himself about to burst. He took a breath and raised himself onto his tiptoes. He kissed Sherlock gently on the cheek.

“No prob.” He said. “Never again, though, yeah? See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a oneshot but I accidntally set up loads of angsty plotlines that couldn't be resolved within fuckyeahteenlock's competition word limit, whoopsie ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Therefore, if you think I have forgotten to tie up some loose ends, fear not - it was on purpose. Expect a second and final chapter sometime in the near future. Let's say Hallowe'en (31st October), because it kind of fits, right?
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter was to be uploaded on the 1st October _specifically_ , but I accidentally published it not once, but twice, while saving it to my drafts. Both times I was at school and both times someone else was in the room so I had to expertly keep my cool while frantically clicking the 'delete work' button, praying to every deity out there that no-one would see it. It was a mess, I tell you.
> 
> Also, disclaimer for all those slang pedants out there: I know 'chirpse' has been around for ages but I only became aware of it in 2012/2013, so.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and if you came here from _[Juxtaposition](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1013999/chapters/2013450)_ , thank you so much for your continued support, it means the world ♥


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